


Derived from depravity

by Zargontari



Series: TF2 Drabbles and Writings [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Body Horror, Gen, I really love medic and it's probably pretty clear, Medic is insane, Medic is screwed up in the head and it's obvious, Medical Inaccuracies, My First Work in This Fandom, Surgery, and probably mentally deficient, basically Medic gives himself surgery for the Übercharge implant and enjoys it, be careful dear reader, if you liked this feel free to request something, my own medic headcanons come into play here and I won't apologise, self harm kind of? He's giving himself surgery so it's kinda implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zargontari/pseuds/Zargontari
Summary: After giving the other mercenaries their über implants, Medic is left with an issue; he still has his own to deal with.What's an ex-doctor to do?Why, get some mirrors and do it himself, of course!(This was written as both a roleplay thing and practice. I am not a medical professional and do not claim to be, and the medical part of this is not as important to me as the mental.)Hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you do!
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: TF2 Drabbles and Writings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965316
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Derived from depravity

**Author's Note:**

> Medic has been my favorite character since I got into Tf2, and so I wrote this. It's fun trying to write how he feels and thinks.
> 
> If you liked it, please let me know! Kudos and comments are highly appreciated. Requests are also highly appreciated. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and have a good day!

Click.  
Thump.

Medic puts his bag down on the table beside him. Already rid of his shirt, sweat runs down his chest unhindered. There's a slight shake to his hands that's almost imperceptible, and a pained look on his face. He always knew that at some point, this would have to be done; and as the only doctor- (𝘦𝘹-𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵.) - he is the only one who has the ability. He's put this off long enough. 

Drying his chest, he wipes himself down with one of his prep wipes. Perhaps not the most sanitary, but it will work for now. The chances of that being what kills him is extremely low. If it becomes a problem later, well, that's an issue for future him to deal with.

Medic sits down on the modified table and does a once over of everything he needs. The über implant glows from its case; flickering as if in mockery of his weakness. Because that's what this is, is it not? He's known since this begun what he'd have to do. But as the clock ticks down, the hour hand wiping away the time before they fight, he knows he can't put this off for much longer. So, that leads to now. No more time left to waste.

Surprisingly enough, this won't even be the first time he's done something like this - though perhaps the first he's done to this magnitude. His own body had been the first test subject he'd ever had, after all; so why not use it? The neighbor's pets- they- no, he doesn't remember anything about pets. There's a dog somewhere in his memory, but there's nothing around it. Just a golden dog whose name he can't recall and whose significance is lost to the painful fog in the back of his mind.

The sound of something clattering to the floor shakes him and Medic glances down to see that his scalpel has fallen to the floor in his reminiscing. He sneers as he picks it up again. Now is a very bad time to get lost in memories, no matter how curious he is to chase those of that golden dog. Christening it "Matt" for now, he dismisses the thought to be pondered further upon later. He has a job to complete.

It's just another job. Just another body on the table, to be opened and revealed and shown in all its faults to the watching gods above. The fact that it's his own body has nothing at all to with it. Medic has always had a high pain tolerance, and today he's putting it to test once more. (𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺.)

The first cut is as easy as it always is. The tremor in his hand is near gone, as if even his body recognizes that he is on the job now. The sting is lessened by the wipe he has used earlier. Across from and over him, two mirrors are set up so he can see clearly. While maybe not the most careful of jobs, it'll do for now. Without a second pair of hands, it will have to. There's no choice. The further the knife travels, the more his breath stutters as the pain starts to hit. High pain tolerance or no there's little masking the feeling of blood running down his sides and feeling of cold air hitting his exposed body. 

The worst part is the fact that he's not being held down. Medic could stand up and get away. There's nothing that will stop him from stopping now, but he knows that it has to be done. Only his will keeps him on the table and when he takes the rib spreader in both hands, he can feel that willpower cracking at the edges.

It's cold going in. The two edges that go between his ribs feel like absolute hell and he knows it only gets worse from here. He has to catch his breath after aligning it. He feels as though he will break from this alone although he knows better; this will only stretch them, unless something goes wrong. And if something goes wrong, there won't be much that can save him anyway. As the only doctor, he's the only one who knows how to do this. He's the only one who can help him now.

(𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦? 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦. 𝘙𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵?)

Medic hurriedly brushes away the thoughts threatening to crowd him, breathing more sharply. Now is not the time for panic and retrospection. Now is the time for complete and utter calm. His hands shake as he forces the spreader's handle to turn, and cold air brushes against the inside of his body. A smile spreads across his face as he stares at the mirror. The innermost part of him is almost showing, the most hidden parts of him on display. Not even lovers will ever see him as he sees himself now. The pain that wreaks him is growing, but what is pain in the face of such beauty? Nothing stands to this; nothing competes.

What was he so worried about? Medic laughs breathlessly, turning the crank again. Who could feel fear when looking at themselves like this? By god, he could rearrange himself. Nothing is hidden from him now. The blood on his body, on the table, on his hands; it's beautiful. It's like opening a brand new bottle of paint. Like looking at water after months of going thirsty. He needs more. He has to see more, needs to bury his hands in himself and bring it to the light. These mirrors cannot do him justice, no; he needs it brought up more than that. 

In his excitement, he tries to sit up and the pain spikes again, black cornering his vision. It makes him angry, cursing out loudly in a language he hardly remembers. What need is there for any memory that does not pertain to this? There is nothing more important right now than the slick-covered pieces of himself that are being shown to the empty world of this room. If he concentrates, he can hear some old, forgotten part of him screaming that time is of the essence; but that is no more than a lie, right? The feeling of being exposed like this is more blissful than any that he can remember experiencing before. 

His mouth is open in a heavy pant, and through the mirrors he can see his own lungs filling and deflating. With a weak hand, Medic lightly touches one of the bag-like organs. It tickles like a knife and he giggles. If he wanted, he could crush it and oh, does he want to. So easy. Such a soft thing at the tops of his fingertips, so fragile and yet so very important. His lungs work so hard every day, pulling oxygen in and sending the carbon dioxide out. Even when he sleeps they slave away. Medic wishes he could thank them but as is, they have no mind to recognize the gratitude. He settles for gently rubbing them with his finger in a mock-pet. They deserve almost all of the love he can offer in this state, and who is he to not give it when there's so few times he will be this way in his life. 

Medic's heartbeat skipping brings him back to the present. Ah, yes. His heart, such a small little thing for how very important its job is. Even more important than the lungs, and so much more beautiful. It rocks back and forth inside its meaty cradle, veins and arteries keeping it in place like a present tied in a box. The little organ is so prettily trapped that his hands itch to untie it and lift it up - because what kind of man would he be, to keep something so precious all to himself and hidden? It makes him exhale a laugh that's almost as shaking as his hands are. 

"It is time, mein Freund," he whispers to it, groping for the implant without tearing his eyes away from the sight in the mirror. He doesn't think he could, even if he tried. Each beat seems to capture his attention even more, if that's possible at this point. The implant is dwarfed next to the size of it, only showing further how small it is. "Ve are ready."

With the mirror's aid, Medic lifts his heart only slightly as not to injure it in his big, clumsy hands - he would not want to insult his most hardworking friend by harming it, after all! - and feels for the area to slide the slickened implant deep into his heart.

The feeling of it going in, god, this is what heaven is. He hopes there is no god and no heaven for if there is, that heaven could never compare to this. Nothing could compare to the blood against flesh and bone that scrapes together roughly in a morbid harmony. The song that the body sings is the most beautiful, and no angel could ever hope to battle it.

No one will ever love this part of him as he does, he knows. The others he has met don't understand the true beauty of holding themselves in any way that isn't sexual. He cringes at the thought. Such a barbaric nature, to only want to see those you love on the outside. He barely remembers having a wife, one who screamed and cried when he tried to explain that he wanted no secrets between them, so why not bare the most important parts of themselves? Medic has no want for the outsides, for the pieces tainted already by other partners and violaters. Only the parts that matter are important to him. Only beating hearts and straining lungs appease this feeling, prove their love for him and his for them as well.

At this angle, love is all he can feel. All the wound and twisting guts in his abdomen are stinging from the air but he touches them gently as well, slipping his hands between the wet folds to hold them in his bloodied hands. They have their job as well, and he wants to prove his love to them. He appreciates everything they do for him and he says so, but his voice is weaker now. The darkness is getting worse and what he can see is dimming as the pain returns to choke him. Medic can see each part of his body strain with the sick that threatens to come up with the hurt echoing through him.

It's time to close up, then. A feeling of sadness strikes through him in the deepest parts of the soul he isn't sure he has. He hates having to hide this away again. Maybe one day, he'll be able to show it off. Maybe everyone will, and he won't be alone anymore in this feeling of freedom, of exposure and assurance in his own broken skin.

Medic starts to turn the handle of the spreader, pulling it the opposite way of how he wants to - knowing that if he keeps himself open much longer, he will die and this will have been for nothing. His ribs ache as they slide back into their normal places. The pain has fully come back to him now, hitting him in blinding waves that make him want to laugh with just how much it 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴. He doesn't deny himself the urge for long, and loud laughter fills the soundproofed room a minute later; shaking, breathless and insane.

Stitches go next. One, two, three, four- again and again and again in little pinpricks that are hardly felt with the agony already there. He can't stop laughing, but when he touches his face blood isn't the only thing coating his fingers when he pulls away. His tears drip to the ground as he stumbles off the bed. Why is he crying? Why does it hurt so much now when it was so nice before, please, he wants so badly to go back to the niceness of before. Why does he have to be stuck like this? If he could tear himself apart, he would, but he's too weak. The flesh that coats and covers his body is too tight. It's sickening.

Exhaustion runs rampant through his body as he leaves the room, makes him stumble as he trips over his own feet. Blood splatters to the floor as he makes himself move into the infirmary. He'll clean himself up later, he thinks as he collapses on the bed, staining the sheets with thick crimson liquid and tears.

He's out immediately.  
His dreams are filled with explosions and screams and the feeling of being far, far too late.


End file.
